The following day began no differently. Rehema was up early, tending to the baby and preparing breakfast, all while nursing the sting of Ali's absence. Her body ached, her mind felt clouded, and yet she moved through the morning like a machine—focused only on survival.
Ali walked in just as she was pouring tea into a mug. The sun was already high, and he looked like he'd barely slept. Rehema froze, watching him from the corner of her eye as he dropped onto the couch, scrolling on his phone without a word.
She placed the mug down forcefully, breaking the silence. "You didn't come home last night."
Ali didn't look up. "I was busy."
"Busy doing what?" she pressed, folding her arms. "Or should I ask, with whom?"
He sighed, finally meeting her gaze. "Why do you always have to make a scene? It's too early for this."
"It's not early; it's late—just like you!" Her voice cracked, but she pushed on. "You think I'm making a scene? Do you know what it's like to sit up all night, wondering if your husband is alive or dead?"
Ali put his phone down and rubbed his temples. "You're being dramatic, Rehema."
"Am I? Tell me, Ali. What exactly is it that you're so busy with? Your family? Your child? Or is it her?"
At that, his expression hardened. "Don't bring her into this."
"Why not?" she demanded, her frustration bubbling over. "You've already brought her into our lives! You've given her the time, the attention, the love that should belong to me. So, no, Ali, I won't stay silent about her."
Ali stood abruptly, towering over her. "Enough."
Rehema held her ground, despite the tears brimming in her eyes. "No, Ali. Enough is enough when you decide it is. When you walk out that door without a word. When you compare me to her and call me lazy because your mother told you so."
"She's right," Ali shot back. "You barely keep this house in order. And look at you—always complaining, always nagging. Is it any wonder I don't want to be here?"
The words stung more than any physical blow could. Rehema felt her chest tighten, but she refused to let him see her break. "If I'm so unbearable, why don't you just leave? Permanently."
For a moment, there was silence. Then Ali laughed bitterly. "You'd love that, wouldn't you? So you can play the victim, tell everyone how terrible I am while you sit here and do nothing."
Rehema's voice dropped to a whisper, raw and trembling. "I don't have to tell anyone. Your actions speak for themselves."
---
The tension in the house lingered long after Ali stormed out. Rehema spent the day in a fog, going through the motions while her thoughts raced.
Later, Ali's mother appeared, her face lined with disapproval. She glanced around the house, her gaze sharp and judgmental. "This place is a mess," she muttered.
Rehema set down the broom she'd been using and turned to face her. "I've been cleaning all morning."
Ali's mother snorted. "Cleaning? You call this cleaning? No wonder Ali is so frustrated. A man needs a peaceful home to return to."
"And what about what I need?" Rehema asked, her voice steady but strained. "Does that not matter?"
Ali's mother waved a dismissive hand. "You young women these days think marriage is about your happiness. It's not. It's about sacrifice."
"I've sacrificed plenty," Rehema replied, her voice rising slightly. "But when does it stop? When do I get to matter?"
"You'll matter when you learn your place," the older woman snapped. "Ali is a man. Men have needs, and if you can't meet them, don't blame him for looking elsewhere."
Rehema felt a bitter laugh escape her lips. "Of course. It's always the woman's fault. Never the man who breaks his vows, who abandons his family."
Ali's mother stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "Watch how you speak to me, girl. You don't know what it's like to raise a family alone, to be the fifth wife and still hold your head high. You think you have it hard? You don't know the meaning of struggle."
Rehema's hands clenched at her sides. "Maybe I don't. But I know that this isn't love. This isn't a marriage. And if you think it is, then maybe that's why Ali turned out the way he did."
---
That evening, as Rehema sat by the window with her baby in her arms, she thought about her mother-in-law's words. Was she right? Was she the problem?
But deep down, Rehema knew the truth. She wasn't perfect, but she wasn't the villain in this story. She had fought, sacrificed, and endured more than most would. And yet, it was never enough.
The sound of Ali's car pulling into the driveway snapped her out of her thoughts. She braced herself as he walked in, his expression unreadable. He glanced at her but said nothing, heading straight to the bedroom.
Rehema followed, her heart pounding. "Ali."
He stopped but didn't turn around. "What?"
"We need to talk."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Not now, Rehema. I'm tired."
"I'm tired too," she said softly. "Tired of feeling like I'm the only one trying to hold this together."
Ali turned to face her, his expression one of frustration and resignation. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to try," she replied, her voice cracking. "I want you to see me, to hear me, to care."
For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
"I'll try," he said finally, though the words felt hollow.
As he turned away, Rehema felt a tear slip down her cheek. She didn't believe him. Not anymore.
---
"Love without effort is a mirage. A relationship can survive storms, but it cannot survive neglect."